


man, FUCK your credit score

by deltacrow



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU: Accountant, AU: Police, Gift Fic, M/M, a smattering of other countries mentioned and referenced, beta read, i dont even go to this fandom, the breadstick meme rears its ugly head
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-11 07:10:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4426118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltacrow/pseuds/deltacrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on (my own) OTP prompt, and a gift for RandomThingiesHere on tumblr:</p><p>"A is a superhero. B is an accountant in charge of A’s bank account/ credit cards/ general finances, and puts their identity together through a record of A’s ridiculous purchases.<br/>plot twist: B is a much better hero/ villain"</p><p><i>“Mr. Jones, your file states you are police officer. Why would you need to order Kevlar on Amazon? And </i>why<i> do you need so many grappling hooks?”</i></p><p><i>Alfred panics and shouts, “I’m so sorry, you’ll get your money, I have a work emergency, </i>bye,<i>” before stabbing at the end call icon and throwing his phone at the wall.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the original

**Author's Note:**

> tw: mentions of being shot, kind of graphic action, some discussion of needles, and kind of weird dub-con, considering one party is high on codeine while the other is mistaken as his boyfriend. if it makes you feel any better, both parties would consent to a date/ relationship.

“Braginsky! I need you to call account numer XXXXX5777!”

 

“Yes? What happens to be trouble here?”

 

“They’ve got overdue payments and overdraft charges.”

 

Ivan sighs to himself and contemplates wringing someone’s neck. He’s heard about Lucky Sevens, and he contemplates reaching for the rotgut in the bottom drawer before pulling up Lucky Seven’s expense reports for the last month before deciding, no, getting drunk before calling would only prolong the process, and would make getting home more difficult.

 

“ _Son of a bitch,_ ” he breathes, and reached for the flask anyway, barely tasting the burn.

 

That’s a hell of a lot of overdraft fees.

 

\--- ---

 

Alfred manages to pull on a shirt before the phone rings. He’s tired-- he’s riding desk for another few months, meanwhile the original bullet wound has already healed over, sorry, Chief, but he’s pulling time and a half to make up for it-- and he had a patrol route last night after when he’d... usually patrol. So sue him when he can’t find his phone in the pigsty he left it in when he came through the windows, like, three hours ago.

 

“Y’ello?”

 

“Hello. Is this Jones, Alfred? Is Ivan, from Allied Credit International.”

 

Oh, shit, not this again. “Look, I thought I paid on time this month--”

 

“Yes, but,” and by God does Alfred hate the word _but_ ; “You’re alive _but_ \--” “I’m sorry, _but_ \--” “We have room for you in the department, _but_ \--”, he’s fucking _sick_ of it.

 

“--and I am very concerned about your purchase history.”

 

Alfred startles, realizing he’s missed basically everything this poor guy has said. He probably hates his job; New York is a terrible place for cold callers and collection agencies. He’s heard telemarketers that have to deal with New Yorkers get paid extra, which makes him a little proud and a little ashamed. “I’m sorry, I-- Can you repeat that?”

 

“I am very concerned with your purchase his--”

 

“No, before that, I missed the in-between parts.”

 

Ivan sighs, and the static that hits Alfred’s ear reminds his that Ivan has a really interesting accent. Thick and hard in the weirdest of places, like wearing a down coat in three feet of snow. “You have $230 in overdraft fees, and have less than $50 in account with $1087 waiting to be cleared. And I am very concerned about your purchase history.”

 

Oh, God. Right, since he can’t dip into the stock at work for ammunition, Alfred’s been needing to buy his own ammo. He tends to run through a lot of it, even though the gun is sort of last resort. And someone managed to rip his flak jacket, like fuck metahumans or mutants or whatever, how do they manage that? It wasn’t even a tear at a seam.

 

“Mr. Jones, your file states you are police officer. Why would you need to order Kevlar on Amazon? And _why_ do you need so many grappling hooks?”

 

Alfred panics and shouts, “I’m so sorry, you’ll get your money, I have a work emergency, bye,” before stabbing at the end call icon and throwing his phone at the wall. Thankfully, it bounces, and does not shatter, but the screen looks like something shot it; cracks spiderweb out and the smaller pieces rattle around.

 

\--- ---

 

On the other end, Ivan repeats, “Hello? Mr. Jones?” before he numbly hangs up.

 

Well, the ringing in his ears from the dial tone means he’s not exactly numb, but that can easily be arranged.

 

\--- ---

 

Alfred manages to cancel the order for those grappling hooks-- what was he thinking? Clearly not much, he’s _smarter_ than ordering 27 grappling hooks-- before it gets shipped. Then he begs to pull some extra hours working traffic-- he’s been shuffled around since his accident, and traffic always has openings in a city-- because he has, like, $600 still outstanding on his credit card bills. He’s good for it, sure, but it’s still not a good idea.

 

His shift ends around three, and when the relief comes, he could just about cry with happiness. Ludwig isn’t a nice man-- he’s spent too long directing uncaring New Yorkers and wide-eyed tourists to be anything but jaded.

 

“I haven’t seen any tomato carts,” Alfred says by way of greeting. “And you’re late!”

 

“I’m on time, ass,” he grumbles. “And he exists, I fucking swear, and I’ll _wring his damn neck._ ”

 

“Not while I’m-- not while I’m here to see, okay?” Alfred makes his way to the squad car parked on the next corner. He yells “Plausible deniability!” and waves, before sliding into the driver’s seat and peeling out of his spot.

 

This is precisely when everything goes to hell.

 

...Well, actually, it takes a little bit to actually go to hell. But this is about when it could’ve been prevented, if he had noticed the tomato cart that the end of the block.

 

\--- ---

 

He’s passing by Arthur, night shift desk sergeant, who is falling asleep into his coffee-- Alfred gapes, because Arthur’s been a _freak_ , even as a kid, and Alfred has bets placed that he only sleeps on alternating Thursdays and tax holidays-- and while normally he would demand to know how Artie is emulating emotion so well, “because, y’know, you’re actually an _android_ ,” where they’d debate, loudly, about iPhones and androids and Arthur’s and Siri’s compatibility, but he is literally too damn _tired_ for that. He chooses instead to lean on the counter, steal his brother’s mug, and announce, “she has to die at some point.”

 

Arthur whips around, and screams, “Queen Elizabeth is immortal, you fucking prick!” before making grabby hands at his coffee mug.

 

Alfred stages a retreat, and is in his car 5 minutes later, mug still in hand, when he hears the hammer of a gun click. Instinctively, he freezes, because his holster is empty, and this son of a bitch _pickpocketed_ him. _In his own damn car_.

 

“I was not expecting you to recover so quickly, Officer Jones,” the voice from the backseat purs. “And here we thought you wouldn’t make it. It was all very touch-and-go, especially at the beginning.”

 

“It was just a flesh wound,” he murmurs. Alfred feels the phantom twinge in his gut of the gunshot wound, remembers agreeing desperately to some experimental shit; the needles of the IVs in his arms, and the burning feeling in his veins immediately afterward. The doctors told him, later, that his fever spiked to 103.7.

 

And Alfred remembers the coffee in his hand, heat through the ceramic and into his fingertips, and decides, _fuck it._ “Gimme a sec, I’m not really awake,” he tells the man in back, and lifts the mug to his face, taking a cautious sip. He savours the pure molten caffeine and thinks, _this is fine,_ before lowering the mug and flinging it violently into the backseat.

 

The man curses and flails with the gun, and fires a shot into the roof in panic, before Alfred squirms to face him and slams his assailant’s face into the driver’s seat headrest. Alfred contorts himself into the backseat, shoving his body between the front seats and dragging his cuffs out of his coat pocket. “You are under arrest for felony theft and assaulting an officer of the law. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can be held against you in a court of law.” The angle’s weird, and cuffing this man is going to be tricky. “You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present when you are questioned.” _Ugh, Jesus,_ Alfred groans, _how the hell am i gonna get at his other wrist?_

 

Because Alfred gets out of the car, and watches his brother run over to him. His brother’s caterpillar eyebrows scrunch together in concern, and Alfred has a moment of panic when he assumes they’re going to try to crawl off of Arthur’s face. He associates this with shock, and also associates the hug he gets from Arthur to also be a product of shock.

 

And this is where things really get out of hand.

 

\--- ---

 

So of course, with the doors unlocked, the only two officers of the law in shock and otherwise preoccupied, and with the gunman still armed, Alfred gets shot in the back.

 

What happens is this:

 

The gunman, later identified as Lovino Vargas-- grandson of the boss of the Empire mob, working out of, well, Empire State-- throws himself out of Alfred’s granny car. With cuffs dangling from his left wrist, and with blood and terrible coffee dripping from his face, he fires at the two brothers.

 

His vision is admittedly blurry, but accurate enough: there are two chalky blobs that could be heads, and a few other shapes that could be hands. That’s enough to estimate where a back would be.

 

Lovino fires a round at what is now swimming into focus as his target and another officer, presumably his brother. The bullet hits home, and shatters.

 

Alfred yowls, because a part of his shoulder feels like it is _on fire_ , and Arthur tightens the hug briefly before shoving his brother to the side-- _jostling his fucking shoulder,_ son of a bitch ow fucking _ow_ \-- and kicking the floundering shooter in the balls, disarming him, and finishing up the cuffs.

 

By this time, other officers are pouring out of the precinct and hurtling to where shots were fired. As soon as another two end up, sweating and swearing by and reading rights to the downed shooter, Arthur hurries to his brother.

 

“Re-- oh fucking shit _ow, stop_ that--”

 

“I refuse to see you die before the monarchy,” Arthur whispers. “Did he hit you.”

 

“This is not an after-school special, Artie--”

 

_“Did the bad man hit you, or not?”_

“Fine, yes, _the bad man hit me_ \-- don’t _touch_ it!” Alfred bats away his brother’s hands with the arm that doesn’t feel like it's being crushed by boulders every time he moves. “Just-- drive me to Matt’s and I’ll let you watch him play doctor.”

 

“Or, we could, I don't know, go to a hospital--”

 

“What’s that? You had a _punk phase?_ ”

 

Arthur’s face lights up like a glow stick and he mutters, “If you are trying to use _emotional blackmail_ \--”

 

“Let me just--”

 

“It won’t--”

 

“The entire precinct--”

 

“ _It won’t work_ \--”

 

“They fight alongside us _they deserve to know_ \--”

 

“ _This fucking loon,_ ” Arthur shouts over his brother, “is injured, mildly so, and will be seen by his brother. He will not be submitting a statement tonight.”

 

The officers nod in understanding, and some of them sigh in relief-- occasionally, Alfred’s statements of a case sound like they should be inked and published as a comic book, and Alfred finds new ways to accidentally insult people with the nicknames he gives victims, witnesses, and suspects to keep them all in order. Arthur is normally called in to streamline the process.

 

So Arthur bundles his wounded brother into his Honda Civic, and spends half a minute examining his hands to make sure there’s no blood caking under his fingernails.

 

Alfred burrows deeper into his jacket and wonders whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

 

\--- ---

 

“So I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Matthew drawls, snapping at the latex-free gloves he rolled on minutes before, “but I can’t pierce your skin. So I’ve given up trying.”

 

“That’s stupid,” Alfred mutters. “I got a paper cut, like, two days ago.”

 

“That was two days ago,” Matt complains. “Two days later-- _today,_ might I add-- you’ve broken even the 20-gauge needle. I can only go down one more gauge if you want any sort of local anesthetic.”

 

“Yes, please, get me on so many drugs, all I want is to find out why my shoulder hurts and have it not hurt through science.”

 

“You better be good for all this broken shit,” Matt grumbles, and prepares to have another needle break on him to get an IV into his brother’s good arm.

 

His hand slips, and he manages to jam Alfred in the stomach with an elbow as the needle goes in cleanly.

 

“Doctor, I didn’t know you needed such a _hands-on_ approach,” Alfred groans. “What went wrong this time?”

 

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Matt replies. “Arthur, I need your tragically misinformed opinion.”

 

Arthur grumbles from the Styrofoam cup in his hands, swirling the coffee grounds left in the cup. “Maybe it’s one of those nerve impulse things. You wanted drugs, drugs meant needle, needle meant,” he waves the cup in the direction of the ceiling and spins in his stool, “no fucking Kal-El for you.” His brothers laugh. “You wanted my fucking opinion, no need to be buggering fucks about it.”

 

\--- ---

 

It’s bright and early when Ivan walks into Allied Credit Union. He sits in his chair, refills the canteen with the rotgut in his water bottle, and logs into his computer.

 

There’s been a massive purchase to Lucky Seven’s account. It’s a medical expense report.

 

Sometimes, Ivan thinks, reaching for the canteen in the bottom drawer again, sometimes going to work is not the best option.

 

So he gathers his brief case and stashes Thursday’s canteen in his coat pocket.

 

“I need to make house call,” Ivan announces to his boss. “Will need day for this endeavor.”

 

Mr. Zwingli’s eyebrows raise, and not a single muscle seems to move with them. “We’re not _loan sharks,_ Mr. Braginsky. If you must, though, then please do not go _visibly_ armed.”

 

“I would have assumed not armed at all,” Ivan admits. “I am weapon enough on my own.”

 

“Fair. Go, then. We have quarterly reports due soon.”

 

\--- ---

 

Ivan tends to enjoy thinking that he is the most interesting man he knows. He understands that he relies a little too heavily on his A&P membership card to carry him through tax season, and he also has come to terms with intimidating people with his height and heavy accent. It’s probably why he’s never been promoted, really.

 

So when he decides to visit Lucky Sevens-- Mr. Alfred Jones-- at the New Hope Clinic-- he does not expect to run into his sister. Nor does he expect Mr. Jones to be handsome.

 

Or higher than a kite.

 

“Matty,” Jones whines, “There’s a tall lady with a really hot nurse here and I need you to protect me!”

 

“I need you to shut up. We can’t always get what we want,” the doctor-- presumably “Matty”-- sweeps out of the room.

 

“No, Matty, come back-- _I can’t defend myself from the straights!”_

 

 _“I swear to God, if his heart monitor spikes while you’re in this building, you’re sleeping on the fire escape tonight,”_ his sister hisses before shuffling out.

_“Why are you worried? You know me. I’m fine, it’ll be fine; there will be no funny business. I swear. Scout’s honour.”_ The door shuts behind him, and immediately Mr. Jones’ lazy focus targets Ivan.

 

“Maaaan,” Mr. Jones groans. “That was totally Russian. I’ve gotten shot by Russians before. They don’t even allow gays. Only super-straight people allowed. Ugh, worst day ever.”

 

“I... am sorry, Mr. Jones? I am Ivan from Allied Credit Union--”

 

“Oh _man,_ of course the credit card guy is hot and gonna break my teeth!”

 

“Only if you explain cancelled grappling hooks and large bill from clinic?”

 

“I want a date first; I can’t trust you with my credit cards if I don’t do a _background check._ ” Mr. Jones is belligerent while high, apparently. His nose is scrunched up, either because someone waved a fish under his nose or because the thought of a credit card company using a faceless drone to look over his Amazon purchases was unbearable.

 

Well. Supposing he remembers this when he’s not quite so stoned, there’s no real harm, is there? His nose was very cute. (He's very cute. It’s mildly distracting.)

 

“I can accept that. Should we get in writing, or--”

 

“Good news, brother dearest,” the doctor from earlier slams the door open and ignores Ivan. “I can take you off drugs within a few hours, and you can have--” His gaze pans to Ivan, and he adjusts his glasses, leaning into Ivan’s face comically. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,” the doctor notes. “I never _do_ get to meet Alfred’s boyfriends. This is convenient. I’m Matt. He probably forgot to mention me, which is a shame; I hold the family blackmail.”

 

“He’s only my boyfriend if he can get me away from you, why are you getting taller?” Mr. Jones-- well, if you’d agree to a date and have been mistaken as a boyfriend, you ought to call a man by his first name, Ivan supposes-- Alfred motions for Ivan to stand by his head. “You should get away from the giant,” he stage-whispers. “Lemme-- lemme protect you, I’ll come over there and protect you--”

 

“Will do no such thing--”

“You were shot, you idiot, stay in bed--”

 

“He was _shot?_ ”

 

“Was I _really? Again?_ ” Alfred tries to bat away Ivan and Matt’s hands. “You totally need protecting, you brought the giant right here.” He scoots over to one edge of the bed and pats it once, staring at his hand. “You should stay here then, if I can’t get up.”

 

“You are-- you are like cat. Like, like slinky. Unbearable.”

 

“Yeah, but am I a sexy slinky?”

 

“No such thing. There-- this feels like blackmail material. Matthew, are you getting this?”

 

“Every word. I don’t suppose you introduced yourself?”

 

“Ivan. You, ah, happen to work with my sister. Funny coincidence, that.”

 

Alfred paws at Ivan’s coat and whines, “there is too sexy slinkies. The-- the plastic, plastic  rainbow ones in different shapes. Am I a sexy slinky, honey bear?”

 

“I-- yes, very, please stop. Do not hurt yourself further!”

 

“Awesome. So if I’m the slinky, we can probably escape using the stairs if you throw me.”

 

_“Please do not get up.”_

\--- ---

 


	2. the meme nobody asked for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I fucked up, the day I finished this, and was baited into writing a meme-fic for RandomThingiesHere. She is a cruel mistress, and I am unable to say no to anything, especially when asked or goaded into it. Here it is, the nearly dialogue-only seq-meme you never knew to ask for and can now never take back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> breadstick meme, mentions of communism and mccarthyism. sexual references. like, not even 150 words of complete trash.

\--- ---

 

“I heard you liked memes, you ridiculous commie,” Alfred says one night, slipping into bed. “So I stole the breadstick basket from the table at Gil’s retirement party.”

“Thank you. Did you have purse on you, or is that what the pants are for? We have discussed pants in bed.”

“This is what I do for you, you meme whore. Trying to get my pants off for memes.”

“Am always a slut for memes,” Ivan replies sleepily. “Am hoping you were not caught?”

“What do you take me for? An ametuer?” Alfred sighs. “I’d get a record for you though. You and your dumb memes.”

“I would break you out. Go on lam.”

“Shut up and help me eat these without getting crumbs everywhere. You’d be there first, or my name isn’t McCarthy.”

 

\--- ---

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drop me a line at galagavantula.tumblr.com or gogogadget-im-going-gogoat.tumblr.com! Both have been typed out meticulously for your copy & paste needs! Also, be on the lookout to a spinoff fic by an author unknown to me, who has graciously and bravely demanded to lift the mantle from me! Kudos to you, brave knight; I'm here whenever you need me!


	3. i fucking plot'd goddammit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alas, I fucked up _yet again_. This time, however, it was worse than a trashy meme-fic; no, fate was cruel enough to have me _consider a plot_ for this trainwreck. RandomThingiesHere, as always, stole Lucifer's work and _only encouraged_ this kind of terrible behavior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of drugs (legal, i swear), and inhibiting movement (arthur is reckless when he's high and endangers people). people are filming this and do not intend for it to be shown to anyone outside of the family. (sidenote-- it never does. matt's too good for that sort of leak. he runs a tight ship, man.)
> 
> now including: fake text messages!

\--- ---

A phone in Ivan’s cubicle rings. In fact, the phone in his cubicle rings an awful lot. A little too much, in Ivan’s opinion; the difference here is that he is already on the phone. _There is some phone-ception going on,_ Ivan muses, and then shakes the cobwebs out of his head. He has been spending too much time with his boyfriend, he thinks fondly.

 

So Ivan cradles the office phone, and sets the receiver down gently on a post-it stack. The woman on the other end was rehashing the same problem she’s had for days: she is calling the wrong person to deal with her investment portfolio, and staunchly refuses to call her investment manager. At some point, he will direct her to Mr. Zwingli, and he will direct her to... probably someone else that works under him, because he secretly owns half of Wall Street or something.

 

The notification on his phone is a snapchat from Matthew. Ivan almost spits when he sees a blonde man in a hospital bed before he notices the abnormally thick eyebrows on the patient.

 

Ivan sighs, sending a text. He picks up the phone again and sighs again, pushing into his client’s (?) tirade and suggesting she speak to his manager. He puts her on hold, and gathers up his coat and briefcase and striding to the elevator.

 

\--- ---

\--- ---

 

“He’s been raving for the past half hour. When you can understand anything he’s saying, under the slur, it’s _hilarious,_ ” Matthew explains, striding down the linoleum floors. “But he’s always twitchy when he’s high, and they had to _really_ pump him to do the surgery.”

 

Ivan nods, and struggles to keep up with Matthew. They come to a stop near the end of a hallway, where incomprehensible grunts and snake noises permeate the walls and ooze into the hallway. The placard outside reads “Kirkland, A,” and Matthew swings the door open and claps his hands together.

 

Arthur is trying to _chew through the restraints_. His front teeth are actually clamped around the restraint on his hand, and he is trying to grind his way through the plastic while talk.

 

Ivan pulls out his phone, opens Snapchat, and begins to record. “You know the front teeth are not chewy teeth, yes?”

\--- ---

\--- ---

 

Alfred climbs through a window and gushes, “I can’t _believe_ you’d invite me, babe, oh my _god!_ ”

 

As it turns out, though, he climbs into the wrong window, which is chaotic enough, but then he tries to leave through the window, which causes a bigger stink. When nurses are called down because the patient’s heart monitor has spiked, Ivan’s mega-scary nurse sister, Katuysha, takes one look at him and nearly slams him into the floor.

 

Instead, she drags him out of the room by his arm, hissing under her breath. Alfred would whine about the rough handling, but Kat has no mercy to people who get in the way of her work. It’s terrifying. He’s in love with her dedication.

 

“Do not let brother leave, under _pain_ of _disembowelment_ ,” she hisses in his ear, before opening the door to Arthur’s hospital room. He doesn’t even have enough time to think, _which brother_ , because everyone has a brother in there, before she disappears to be a productive, terrifying, and well-paid individual.

 

Inside, his boyfriend stares thoughtfully at his phone screen, while his brother sits in a hospital-issue plastic chair and laughs at Arthur, who is still (from what he understands) trying to chew his way to freedom.

 

“Darling, I can’t believe you’d let me be here for such an auspicious moment! It’s true, we’re totally fated for each other.” Alfred saunters into the room, and drags Ivan in for a quick kiss. He pulls back and wipes an eye with his sleeve. “It’s like going to a christening, but with holy blackmail instead of holy water! Baby’s First Blackmail.”

 

“It was holy blackmail, at least for you,” Matthew cuts in, eyes still on their elder brother, “because you spit your pacifier into the font.”

 

“This should be an interesting story,” Ivan murmurs, and he reels in a horrified Alfred to sit on his lap. “Tell me more,” Ivan demands, as Matt continues, unprompted, “They had to baptize you in your own shameful self.”  

 

“I wasn’t there for that, was I,” Arthur muses, ignoring the restraints for a moment to stare dreamily at the ceiling. This is the first time he’s been lucid since 8:30 AM, and with any luck, this will be the only thing he remembers.

 

Matt doubles over and howls with laughter. "Not like this," Alfred chokes out, because when Arthur is lucid like this, he  _remembers_ , and  _of course_ it would be when Matt brings up weird shit. Alfred doesn't want to be remembered like this, because he will  _die of_ _embarrassment_. 

 

"Of course not," Arthur snaps at the fluorescent lights, hands jerking in the restraints. "there'd be more eyeliner."

 

\--- ---

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You-- _you got that, right?_ "  
> "I-- _I got that_ , bozhe moi, _I got that_."

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even belong to this fandom. I was cajoled into writing this fic.
> 
> Apparently though it's not... super OOC, for which I'm grateful, but this wasn't even supposed to be a thing.  
> If you're seeing this, please write your own version, because RandomThingiesHere is insatiable. I can't hold her back for much longer. _Help._


End file.
